


sk8r boi

by itsacoup



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Ballet, Developing Relationship, M/M, Skateboarding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23383111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: Sid's a skater. Geno's a ballerino. Can I make it any more obvious?
Relationships: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 149





	sk8r boi

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I have no excuse for this. Having said that, I'm not sorry either.
> 
> Much love to my betas arcadeghostadventures and squidbittles! Heaven knows I'm never off my bullshit and you make it better than it has any right to be.

There are a few things that Geno knows as a fact:

One. He is a dancer. Above all else, that is what he is. Maybe someday he will change his mind about his favorite food (vareniki) and his favorite color (brilliant, shimmering gold), but Geno knows to his bones that he will never change his mind about dancing. He can’t imagine for a second not feeling the beat in his bones, the song in his blood, the movement in his lungs. Without dance, he is nothing and nobody. Geno is dancing, dancing is Geno.

Two. The Burr Arts Academy is an incredibly prestigious program for aspiring musicians, dancers, artists, and writers. As such, it commands a ridiculous tuition, not only for classes but for boarding. No matter how dire your situation-- say, if you are a teenage refugee from Russia whose parents are struggling to make ends meet-- the school’s goodwill has to end somewhere. For scholarship kids, it ends at classes. No boarding. So at the end of every day, when all the other students surge together in a flock and turn towards the cafeteria, Geno breaks off on his own and trudges back to the tiny apartment smelling of his mom’s cooking. He’s grateful for it as much as he resents it.

Three. There is a strange place by the side of the road on Geno’s walk home. There must be some kind of an English word for it, but he doesn’t know it. It’s a place filled with concrete, with valleys dipping into the ground and hills stretching above, a confusing and seemingly purposeless topology. Yet it does have a purpose; kids with skateboards and rollerblades throw themselves carelessly up and down the concrete, riding and skating and jumping and twisting and falling, all with easy laughs and outstretched hands when someone hits the ground hard.

There’s something so intriguing about it all, and not for the first time, Geno’s steps slow as he walks by. It’s a busy afternoon today, probably because it’s a Friday and spring has finally fully arrived. The rains and “cold” of winter in LA-- highs of 20 celsius instead of 28, which is still laughable to Geno to be considered cold-- has fled, and the denizens of the concrete park are clearly enjoying the change in weather. 

Before Geno realizes it, his steps have slowed to stillness, and he’s standing outside the chain link fence, staring ravenously inside. There’s such an easy camaraderie between the skaters, so unlike the often cold regard Geno receives at school, and he can admit to himself he’s a little jealous. There’s a little bit of stench in the air, the slightest suggestion of pot smoke, and he wonders briefly if that’s all the difference, if his classmates got high that they would act just as laid-back and friendly. 

“Hey, dude,” someone said easily, derailing Geno’s thought. He snaps away from daydreams to see a guy around his age standing on the other side of the fence, a skateboard propped on his toe and held up by his hand as he regards Geno. 

“Hello,” Geno says stiffly. Even on just two syllables, his accent is unmistakable, and he braces internally for a reaction. 

“I was just coming to grab my water from my bag, and I saw you chilling here,” the other teen says in the relaxed drawl that screams _LA native_. He seems unconcerned by Geno’s accent, his leggings, his dance bag stacked on top of his backpack. 

Geno isn’t quite sure what to do with the teen’s lack of reaction or blasé statement. “I like to watch,” he offers tentatively. He gets a broad, apple-cheeked smile in return. “I’m never see anything like this before.” After it’s out of his mouth, he curses himself; _I’ve_ , not _I’m_. Too late.

Still, the skater is unperturbed. “What, like, a skate park? You’ve never seen a skate park?” His water must not have been that important, because Geno can see it sticking out of the bag at the teen’s feet, yet he hasn’t made a move towards it.

“If that’s what it is, yes,” Geno says. 

The teen nods. “Sick, dude,” he says nonsensically, finally reaching down to grab his water. He bends in a way that pushes his skateboard out to the side, and Geno catches a glimpse of the underside of it. It sparkles under the sun, bright gold and silver toned down by crisp white. There’s fat black streaks that cut ruthlessly through the pattern, and between that and the angle, Geno can’t divine much beyond the colors. The teen shifts and it’s hidden again; Geno feels like he got to see the edges of a secret. 

Geno’s heart pounds as he tries to think of something to say. All he can focus on is the skater’s hair, how it curls delicately around the bottom of the beanie he wears. It’s shiny and black, startling against the snowy paleness of his skin and hazeley green eyes. Geno also wants to look at the way those pink lips curl around the water bottle, but that way lies madness for sure.

“Hey, Croz!” someone calls from across the concrete, jolting Geno out of his increasingly panicked reverie. “Halfpipe is yours, dude! Hurry up!”

‘Croz’ drops his water bottle back into his bag and sighs. “I gotta get back to skating, but like, come by any time, dude.” He flashes that smile again, blushing around it. “Skaters are stoked to have visitors, you can hang out whenever, it’s rad.”

“Okay,” Geno says. “Thanks,” and he tries not to let it sound too much like _nobody in America has ever told me I can come hang out before_.

\------

Geno has Advanced Ballet on Wednesday nights. It’s his favorite four hours of the week-- especially now that Sasha is at the school, and he’s found friends in Julie and Caroline-- followed by his least favorite half hour. The walk home in the dark combined with his exhaustion leaves him feeling vulnerable and skittish, and it’s a brutal come-down from the safety and the high of ballet. 

The skate park, so welcoming and busy during the day, is quiet and maybe even a little scary at night. The distant streetlamps leave ominous shadows dangling from hilltops and pooling in valleys. Geno could even swear that he hears the distant echo of skateboard wheels on concrete, like a ghost is haunting the park. It sounds so real, though, that he’s facing the park and straining his hearing when there’s a sudden burst of movement explodes up from nowhere. Geno can’t help himself; he yelps and drops his dance bag. He also nearly drops the crumpled white paper bag in his other hand, but not even skating ghosts could take that treat from him.

“You okay?” A voice calls from a distance. Apparently Geno’s shout didn’t go unheard. 

“I’m fine,” he calls back, blushing a little, when he realizes the silhouette he’s speaking to looks a little familiar. Even in the dark and from a distance, it’s hard not to notice the shape of the skater’s hips, the way his hair curls out from under his beanie. _Croz_. He feels emboldened by the night, by the possibility that Croz is a ghost, by the dancing that still sings in his blood. “You just scared me a little. Want to come say hi so I know it’s okay?”

That earns not the breezy laugh that all skaters seem to have but rather a high-pitched giggle. Croz’s face is shadowed, and Geno wonders what it looks like in the midst of such gleeful abandon. There’s a _clack_ as Croz drops his skateboard back down-- he had been anchoring it with one foot, the other end sticking up in the air-- and he hops aboard easily and gives a lazy push to glide over to Geno. 

It’s fascinating to watch the ripple of Croz’s body as he controls the skateboard. Geno has spent what feels like his whole life studying movement, style, grace. He is used to the traditional forms of ballet, the technical skill of tap, the focused intent of hip hop. Here, though, is something different yet no less practiced and graceful, hip-slinging posture and gentle tipping movements that create a smooth, controlled glide. 

Croz dismounts seamlessly and kicks up the skateboard again, an arm’s length from Geno. All that’s between them is the chain link fence, and it seems to be too little and too much all at once. The air seems to grow thin, and Geno sways helplessly towards the fence. 

“You look pretty okay,” Croz says as his chin dips. Is he… checking Geno out?

“I’m okay now that you come and check on me,” Geno says. There’s a wisp of hope in the air tonight, the darkness turning from frightful into something simmering with potential, and he decides to take a leap and chase that hope. “What’s the name of my knight in shining armor?”

Croz hesitates, and Geno’s heart sinks. Before he can blurt out an apology, Croz says, “Uh-- a lot of people call me Croz. But... you can call me Sid.”

“Sid,” Geno says, inordinately pleased. It sounds more intimate than Croz, and the way Sid said it-- it sounded special in the way that Croz hadn’t. “Nice to meet, Sid. I’m Geno.”

“You’re out late,” Sid says after a beat. 

“I have class late on Wednesday,” Geno explains. He hesitates, but-- well, Sid’s eyes look interested, and he seems pretty laid back. “Advanced ballet. It’s my favorite.”

Sid’s head tilts. “Ballet? That’s rad. Is it hard?” His expression is still open, curious, and Geno takes heart.

“Yes, a little,” Geno says. “But it’s still the best. It’s not worth doing if it’s easy, you know?”

Sid’s eyes drop to the ground, and he nods a little. “Yeah. You gotta work for it. But the feeling when you get there…”

“Is that what skateboard is for you?” Geno asks. “Is that why you’re out so late too?”

Sid looks back up, and their eyes lock. There’s a moment where Geno feels seen, feels _understood_ like he so rarely is. It takes his breath away. “Yeah, it’s the same,” Sid admits, his smile a little crooked and his cheeks flushing.

“Well,” Geno declares, “Since we work so hard, we also deserve a nice treat.” He unrolls the crumpled top of the paper bag, pulling out the treasure within. “This is vatrushka my mama makes for me. It’s sort of like danish pastry, but better.” Geno carefully tears it in half, and one half is just the perfect size to slip between the fence wires. 

Sid takes it, eyeing it up before taking a bite at the same time as Geno. “It’s good!” he says, mouth full and sounding a little surprised.

“Best,” Geno says contentedly. They eat each of their halves in silence. 

“Thank you for sharing,” Sid says when they’re done.

“You’re welcome,” Geno says. “It’s nice to share with a friend. I don’t eat sweets very often but mama made these special for me. Today is the anniversary of us coming to America.”

“Oh, wow,” Sid says. “Uh-- congratulations? I’m sorry? I don’t know what to say.”

Geno laughs, big and from his belly. “Congrats is good,” he says. “I miss Russia, but it’s been three years. America is my home now. My parents safer here, and so am I.” He takes a breath, and the kindness in Sid’s eyes encourage him over the cliff to take the plunge. “Not so good to be gay in Russia, you know?”

“I can’t imagine how scary that would be,” Sid says softly. Some of the easy LA drawl drops in his thoughtfulness, and his vowels start to round in an unfamiliar way. “I’ve been in LA for a long time, where nobody cares, and we were in Canada before, which was mostly the same. I’ve never had to think about the fact that I’m gay. Sometimes I forget how grateful I should be for that.”

“It’s a good thing,” Geno says. His throat feels a little thick; his heart is beating a little fast. “I’m glad you never have to know that.” 

Any answer Sid may have is forestalled by a burst of sound. Sid swears, digging in his pocket and fumbling out a phone. “My mom,” he says apologetically. “I should head home.”

“Me too,” Geno says, heart dipping a little in disappointment. “See you next week?”

“Same time, same place,” Sid says, a shy smile teasing at his lips, before turning to answer his phone.

\------

It’s a soft Saturday morning, the sun still dragging its heels to leave the horizon behind and the city still sleepy and quiet. Usually Geno is sleepy and quiet at this time, too, but he woke up today with an itch under his skin. He’s loath to give it a name, even though the syllable lingers on his tongue. Should he even begin to think it too hard, his mama would catch on, and then he’d never leave for the inquisition she’d levy towards him. _What’s his name? What does he like? Is he good enough for my Zhenya?_

He manages to stay under her radar. Mostly. “You’re up too early,” she says, the edge of a scold on her voice. “Are you worried about school?”

“No, mama,” Geno says, and he manages to avoid even the suggestion of eye-rolling. “School is good. I’m just antsy today.”

“Well, go be antsy somewhere else,” she says, and the sparkle in her eyes belies the dismissal as approval to relax and not worry about anything for the morning. 

“Thank you, mama,” Geno says, swooping her up in a huge hug until she laughs, swatting at his back with the tea towel in her hand. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she says, a little breathless as he sets her down. “Now, off with you, my tiny terror. Go and enjoy the nice morning we have today.”

“I will!” Geno calls over his shoulder, already halfway out the door. He just misses hitting Denis with said door by an inch, which is disappointing for keeping his standing in their endless brotherly war, but convenient for getting out of the house quickly. 

Geno’s feet run on autopilot, gliding over the concrete towards his goal. He doesn’t know for sure, but-- well, he hopes, and hope is enough to keep his pace quick. He wants to pirouette or even leap into a grand jeté to show the world his excitement. Walking on the soles of his feet feels limiting; he wants to push up onto his toes, become light even in the face of gravity, and spin until he can spin no more. 

The skate park is already full of excitement even as the rest of the city is still rubbing sand from its eyes. There’s a familiar bag on the ground next to Geno’s usual path past the park, and it’s the logical place to wait. But Geno is emboldened by the sun, the fresh air, the promise of a new day, and he loops around the fence until he finds a gate. It’s open, inviting, but Geno still has to take a deep breath before he can convince his suddenly noodly legs to advance. In nervousness, he feels himself settling onto a ballerino’s posture: chin proud and confident, chest up, feet turned slightly outward to make each step not just a step but a part of a subtle dance. 

Geno doesn’t get far into the skate park before someone calls at him. “Hey, dude!” the skater says, blue eyes wide. “Haven’t seen you around before. Come to watch? Need any help?”

Might as well be brave. “I’m here to see--” he nearly says _Sid_ but catches himself. “Uh, to see Croz,” he finishes. 

The skater nods. “Rad,” he says. “Croz is the best, he’s already got an audience. Here, I’ll take you to him.” The skater flings himself to his feet, leaving his skateboard behind as he leads Geno around a staircase with a beat-up railing and over to a hole in the ground. The halfpipe, Geno supposes. (He may have been doing some research recently.)

Geno’s guide shepherds him around to a particular edge of the halfpipe where a few other people cluster. They hardly even notice Geno’s arrival, so intent on Sid and what he’s doing. Once Geno can see-- balancing on the front edge of his tennis shoes to look over their heads-- he feels equally entranced. Sid glides up and down each side of the pipe, popping up and turning lazily in the air before diving back down. It’s a dance all its own, and it’s mesmerizing.

At least, until Sid turns, locks eyes with Geno, and spectacularly eats shit, his board shooting off out of the halfpipe as he sprawls unceremoniously at the bottom. 

There’s a laugh as a couple of people shout things like, “Harsh, dude!” while others drop down into the pipe to offer Sid a hand and give him back his skateboard. They pick him up and dust him off, hamming it up a bit, and Sid is flushed bright red from his neck up past his hairline as he takes back his board and tries to brush off their attention. 

“Halfpipe’s yours, Mac,” Sid shouts, and Geno’s impromptu guide goes sprinting back for his skateboard with a whoop. Sid puts his board down, swinging back and forth across the pipe until he works up enough momentum to pop over the edge and land with a clatter next to his audience. Mac dives right in after Sid’s cleared it, and the audience disperses into loud conversation with a few glances towards Sid.

Geno’s fine with that. He wants Sid’s undivided attention. “You okay?” he asks first, because he can’t imagine falling like that is fun.

“I’m fine,” Sid says, a little glum. He keeps glancing away from Geno, and Geno wants to curl his palms around Sid’s cheeks and show him that it’s safe to look. But Sid is curling into himself in a way that pleads for no contact, and Geno keeps his hands to himself. 

“First time I try to pirouette in arabesque--” Sid’s blank stare reminds Geno of where he is and who he’s talking to, and he says, “Like this,” before popping up on his toes, kicking his left leg back and up until it is parallel to the ground, “Like this, while spinning, I kick the mirror.” He demonstrates with a flutter of his lifted leg, eliciting a giggle from Sid, and drops back down to stand normally. “Put a big crack in it, everyone laughed. I think, I’m cursed _forever_ now!” 

“You don’t look so cursed to me,” Sid says, and now he looks at Geno with a sparkle in his eye. “I didn’t realize ballet could be as dangerous as skating.”

“Very dangerous,” Geno says, nodding solemnly. “Many bad things happen, like you bend too far and rip your leggings right across the butt, or the piano player is out sick so you have to dance to recordings, or you forget your favorite pointe shoes so you have to wear second favorite. It’s a life of suffering, you know?”

Sid throws back his head and laugh, eyes squished closed in glee. “Sounds like it,” he says when he regains his composure. “The worst I have to worry about is a little road rash. No rogue piano players in the skate park.” 

“That’s good,” Geno says. “Piano players, they’re a little crazy. But I know secret-- if you treat them good, then they play you the best music. Also, I bring La Croix every time, they love it.” 

Any response Sid might have is interrupted by another skater coming up and timidly interjecting. “Uh, Croz, we were just wondering--” and waiting for permission to continue. Sid nods, and she says, “Does your friend dance? We were thinking, maybe he has some tricks for balance and spins and stuff.”

Within ten minutes, Geno has a line of eager students standing in front of him. Sid has elbowed his way to the centermost spot, and he stares at Geno with determination as Geno begins talking. “So most important thing for balance is proprioception, or knowing what your body is doing without looking,” he begins. “There’s also kinesthetic awareness, which is proprioception plus movement, but that’s kind of advanced.” He clears his throat uncomfortably, but all of his students are still watching, still waiting. “There’s a lot of exercises to make those better, but I can show you simple ones.”

Geno settles his feet into first position, taking a deep breath and letting it out. He closes his eyes, lifting his arms into second position, feeling them unfurl like bird wings, and then lifts his left leg up and back into arabesque. He balances there, eyes closed, for thirty seconds before lowering his leg, dropping his arms, and opening his eyes.

“It looks very easy, but it’s hard,” Geno warns. “So close your eyes, stretch your arms out for balance, and try to lift one foot just a little.” He demonstrates, picking his right foot up and extending his leg slightly forward until there’s three inches of air underneath the sole of his shoe. “Hold for as long as you can, but eyes have to stay closed!” 

The result is hilarious, Geno nearly choking as he tries to stifle his laughter. Arms windmill, feet scoot along the ground, and eyes fly open in a panic as one by one the students discover just how true Geno’s warning was. Sid makes it the longest at six seconds, but the domino effect started by the gangly teen on the end tipping over into his neighbor takes him out. 

“Good first try,” Geno says. He’s greeted with dubious faces. “Do you know most important part of stability?”

“Knees bent,” one of the students volunteer.

Geno shakes his head. “So many people think so, because gym teachers always say, knees bent. But stability comes from your core.” Geno rests his hands over his abs in demonstration. “Strong core is strong balance. If you’re squishy in the middle--” he pokes dramatically at his core, eliciting a few giggles, “You fall over right away. So this time, think about bracing in your core and keep it strong and tight entire time leg is up.”

They do better with that instruction, Sid managing to balance for fifteen seconds. His eyebrows draw down as he focuses intently, and Geno wants to kiss the space between them to loosen them up and relax. The impromptu lesson is fun, but every inch of him yearns towards Sid.

Despite the yearning, he keeps getting distracted with questions and advice and practicing. The sun is shining right into his eyes before he realizes a couple of hours have passed. His stomach growls as his line of students finish the latest exercise. 

“Everyone did so good today!” Geno says, clapping until everyone joins in. “You can keep practicing all those exercises, they’ll be very good for you. That’s all I have for you, I hope it works!”

“Thank you for helping, dude!” one of the skaters calls, and they all start clapping again. Geno bows, trying not to flush, and then makes a shooing motion with his hands. They disperse, chattering and laughing, and Sid comes up.

“That was really cool,” Sid says. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Geno says, suffused with sparkling happiness like carbonated bubbles popping on his skin.

Geno’s stomach takes that moment to growl loudly, and Sid laughs. “Ready for some lunch?” he asks, and Geno nods enthusiastically. “Me too. Wanna grab some In’n’Out?”

In’n’Out is _definitely_ not on Geno’s meal plan. But there’s that whisper in the air again, the universe murmuring to Geno, and it’s saying, _what’s one lunch in exchange for more time with Sid?_

“Yeah, that sounds so good,” he says, and it really does. Greasy burgers and french fries… he’ll regret it later, with his stomach so used to home-cooked food, but he knows it tastes good enough to make it worth it. 

Sid quizzes him on ballet and dance the entire walk to In’n’Out, and Geno is only able to get questions in sideways about skateboarding in return. Silence only falls as they both take those first heavenly bites of their burgers, each of them sighing and closing their eyes in bliss.

“I’ve never seen ballet before,” Sid muses over their empty trays.

Geno learns forward and grabs Sid’s hand. “You can see ballet!” he says, excited, and then realizes what he’s done. He goes to drop Sid’s hand, but Sid’s fingers tighten around his own, so he doesn’t. “I have my end of year performance next week at school. We’re doing some excerpts from Cinderella, and I’m doing the Russian choreography. I’d really like if you came.” 

“I’d like to go,” Sid says, eyes warm. “Can you text me the info?”

Geno nods, then stops himself. “Uh, need your phone number,” he says, and Sid shakes his head in a _duh_ sort of way. 

Sid fumbles his phone out one-handed, unlocks it, and slides it across to Geno with a new contact open. “Here,” he says, and Geno disentangles one hand to poke at the screen. _Geno)))_ , he writes, then back spaces and replaces the parentheses with smiley emojis. He types in his number, double checking it, before clicking the “send text” option next to it and writing, _Hi, it’s Sid!_ with a string of emoji: smiley faces, hearts, rainbows, and a puppy for good measure. His phone buzzes as soon as he hits send, and Geno slides Sid’s phone back, content. 

“I’ll text you tonight with the info,” Geno says, and Sid nods.

What Geno remembers most after was this moment of holding hands and looking at each other. There’s a small ring of hazel in the middle of Sid’s eyes, and there’s a balance between strength and softness in the way that Sid holds Geno’s hands. Geno carries that knowledge with him as he floats back home, and he thinks of it every night before he falls asleep leading up to the end-of-year performance.

\-----

Performance nights are always full of stretched-thin nerves, especially around ballerini. Geno knows this, thanks to however many years of performance, but some nights it still gets to him. Therefore, he’s sequestered himself off in a corner to do his makeup as far away from the histrionics and wardrobe malfunctions as possible. The ritual battle between his extra-long legs and tights requires five more minutes for dressing compared to everyone else, so he had arrived even earlier to be the first to struggle into costume. He’s cleanly outfitted in white tights and an intricately embroidered white-and-gold coat with egregiously long and wide tails held out by a Romantic style tutu, and already Geno can feel himself slipping into the headspace of Cinderella arriving at the ball. 

The next battle is stage makeup. Geno looks away from his own face, so pale and drawn under the bright mirror lights, and down to the shelf below the mirror. There sits a small maroon bag, worse for the wear with makeup stains and stretched-out stitches, and Geno smiles as he looks at it. _Here_ , his mama had said when she first handed the bag to him. _You need a safe place to keep your stage makeup_. Geno had almost cried at those words, said to him in the early days after coming out, when there was so much discomfort and misunderstanding between them. Papa had asked him, not two days before, if he wanted to be a girl, and the fight that had ensued left the house frigid and silent. That offering, the makeup bag, was what broke the fury and left room for understanding. _I don’t understand what’s happening, but I love you and I support you_ was hidden under his mama’s words, and he feels the warmth of that love even now. 

Geno delicately opens the zip and upturns the bag. The ritual of makeup is familiar to him after so many years, and he feels his own rattled nerves settle down as he lays down foundation and lipstick and eyeliner and blush. In the mirror, he looks like a caricature of a man, lips shockingly bright and eyes shockingly dark-- but on the stage, he will look vital and vibrant. It’s the perfect canvas for the next step, but he’s not ready for that until he’s just going to be on stage, so he repacks the makeup bag carefully and moves away from the mirror for another to use. 

From here on out, his only job is to wait and stay limber. He was selected to go last even though he’s just a sophomore; he’s doing the most difficult solo by far, not in technical skill but in artistry, and so he gets to be the finale of the end-of-year performance. Geno paces somewhat restlessly, stretching and pacing and thinking through the dance to come. Only once, halfway through the program, does he allow himself to pull out his headphones and do a full run-through to the music, flat-footed with arms and expressions half-shaped.

Next, he should be putting on his pointe shoes so he can do his final round of warm-ups and stretches. But the temptation is too great to peek out, and he lurks up to the side of the stage where the next dancers are lined up. The crowd is huge, filled with parents and friends and other students, and no matter how much Geno searches, he cannot find his mama or papa. He can’t even admit to himself how he looks for a third person, how much more desperate he is to see that stocky frame, even more than his own parents. 

Geno recedes and ties on his pointe shoes, putting thoughts of the audience out of his mind. The time passes in a blur, warming up alone before Sasha appears at his side. Sasha is like Geno-- he likes to be quiet before performances-- and they do their usual duo warmups together without a word passing between them. Sasha, dancing the Prince, is in belligerent, blaring red from head to toe, a sharp contrast to Geno’s white-and-gold. 

The stage hands call the dance before Geno’s, and Geno steps away from Sasha with a nod. Over by his bag is the final piece of his costume, a intricate, glittering golden mask. He pulls it on carefully, doing his best not to smudge his foundation or blush, and lines up with Sasha at the edge of the stage. He forces himself to breathe slow and deep, the oxygen fighting the adrenaline-tremble in his fingers and helping him sharpen up. 

The final strain of Julie and Caroline’s music fades into the air, the stage lights go down while the crowd erupts into thunderous applause, and then they’re both hustling past them. “Break a leg,” Julie whispers as Geno steps out onto the stage. He finds the center mark of the stage and settles himself over it, covering his eyes with his hands with one last deep, shaking breath, and the lights come up.

Geno dances the wonder of Cinderella arriving at the ball, surrounded with riches and beauty that he had never seen before. He dances hesitance, the startling moment of insecurity that has him running to leave, before he dances confidence and hope, too enchanted to let the night slip away. Only then does he go en pointe, Cinderella finding his confidence and grace and realizing that perhaps he can belong at the ball too.

The two and a half minutes of true solo work pass in exhilaration for Geno, and then Sasha is stepping onto the stage for the pas de deux, tentatively offering his hand. From here is the Grand Waltz, the technical challenge, and if Geno wasn’t so focused, a smidge of worry would creep in. But Sasha’s first lift is rock solid, and the music is thrumming through Geno’s blood and in his feet, so the spectre of worry fades away. 

Together, Cinderella and the Prince dance, a joyous discovery of each other, before Cinderella has a moment of panic: what time is it? Is he still safe? But the Prince soothes him until they can continue the waltz, turning about the stage together. The lifts are smooth, two strangers working in perfect concert, and the dance rises and falls with the music. Again they separate as each one performs a move and the other echoes it, passing back and forth as they dance together yet apart. Finally, Cinderella and the Prince come together one last time, slowing down into a softer tempo until Cinderella begs for respite, and they walk off the stage in the throes of a gestured conversation as the lights fade. 

The house erupts into applause as Sasha and Geno are surrounded by the other dancers backstage with hissed whispers of “Amazing!” “Bravo!” “Holy shit!” Geno and Sasha lean on each other tiredly, nodding and whispering thanks back, waiting for the applause to die down.

It doesn’t, and the stage manager rushes over, pushing through the crowd. “Curtain call,” she says brusquely, and Geno picks himself up off Sasha, flutters his coat tails to ensure they’re laying properly, and grabs Sasha’s hand. The lights come up and they step out, the applause somehow growing stronger as they make their way to center stage. They turn to face the audience, Sasha lifting their connected hands up before dropping them and dipping into a deep plié alongside Geno. Whistles start, and cries of “Bravo!” and Geno fights the burning in his eyes as tears well up. At the center of the first row, the first person stands and starts the wave of ovations, and Geno expects it to be his mama. But as he looks past the lights and the wave of the rest of the audience standing, he realizes it isn’t. 

It’s Sid.

Geno is in a daze, staring at Sid’s shining eyes, how every ounce of Sid seems to be radiating wide-eyed admiration as he claps as if his life depends on it. Geno can’t look away, but thankfully Sasha is in no similar trance. He waves in the rest of the dancers and they line up on either side of Sasha and Geno, and together they raise their hands and fall into plié after plié. Geno follows the other mechanically, his eyes locked on Sid’s the entire time, until the lights go down for a final time and the applause dies away. 

Getting off the stage feels like a dream; it feels like he’s Cinderella at the ball, fighting against time and party-goers to get to where he needs to be. Backstage is chaos smelling of flower bouquets, filled with shouted compliments and dancers struggling out of sweaty tights. Everywhere Geno goes, there are pats on the back or hugs or compliments, and he floats through it single-mindedly. He doesn’t bother to take off his outfit; all he can convince himself to do is get off his pointe shoes and jam his feet into a pair of slides. Haphazardly, he shoves his street clothes and makeup bag and phone into his bag and decides that if he forgot anything, it’ll be there Monday when he comes in for class. He can’t risk missing Sid, and he flies through the stage door and out into the audience.

Sid is there, front and center, leaning up against the stage and holding a single red rose. His eyes find Geno’s the minute the crowd parts between them. Everything else fades away as they move towards each other, and once they’re within arms length, Sid shoves the rose forward. Geno takes it delicately, but it’s been dethorned, and he smells it before looking back up at Sid.

“That was incredible,” Sid says, and it’s so open and raw that Geno tears up again. 

“Thank you,” Geno says. “Do you like ballet?”

“I like it. I like watching you dance it the most,” Sid says. He’s intense, totally focused on Geno, and slowly, he reaches up towards Geno’s face. Geno stills, his breath fading away, as Sid gently grabs the edge of the mask and tips it upwards. Geno ducks down, the elastic slipping off the back of his head. He raises his head, and Sid smiles at him. “Just checking it’s you, Cinderella,” he teases. 

“It’s me,” Geno says, low and rough. Sid goes to hand the mask to Geno, but he shakes his head. “Keep it,” he says. “It’s yours. So you always remember the first time you see ballet.”

“Okay,” Sid says, pulling his arm back. He balances the mask in both hands, like it’s made of butterfly wings too delicate to touch, and stares at it for a long moment. 

Of course, that’s the moment that mama and papa appear, descending on Geno with kisses and praise. Geno does cry a little then, just a few tears, because his mama is crying and his papa looks a little watery and it’s too much. “We’re so proud of you,” his mama says through trembling lips, and his papa nods and adds, “So proud.” Geno sniffs, hugging both and burying his face into his papa’s shoulder as he tries to collect himself. 

Sasha bounces up then, his own parents in tow, and Geno is set free as they turn to converse with them. Before mama turns all the way away, though, she glances at the rose in Geno’s hand and at Sid holding Geno’s mask, and says, “You have fun tonight with your friends, okay? You earned it.”

“Thank you, mama,” he says.

She smiles at him, still a little teary but so proud. “I love you, Zhenya.”

“I love you, mama,” he says, dashing forward for one last hug before turning to Sid. 

“You must be starving,” Sid says, darting a quick, nervous glance at Geno’s parents. He relaxes a bit as they walk in the opposite direction. Geno can’t blame him; the thought of meeting Sid’s parents is terrifying. 

“I am,” Geno says earnestly. “It’s too hard to eat a lot before a performance, and then this takes so much out of me.”

“In’n’Out?” Sid offers, and Geno doesn’t even think about it. He deserves a treat.

“Yeah,” he says.

Hours pass as they talk and eat and talk some more, the single rose laying on the table between them, until they’re kicked out of In’n’Out as it closes. Now, they’re loitering under a street lamp; Sid has to go the opposite way from Geno to get home from here, but each of them drag out the moment, reluctant to leave. 

It’s after midnight, but Geno isn’t Cinderella anymore, and he thinks-- he hopes-- he wishes--

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Sid’s eyes dart to Geno’s lips as he licks his own. Geno takes a breath, feeling invincible in the wake of such a performance, and he steps closer to loop his arms around Sid’s neck and leans down. 

The kiss is perfect. It starts soft, lips pressed against each other, and then slides into movement, a dance all its own. They explore each other gently, kiss after kiss until they have to break to breathe.

“I-- I have to go,” Sid blurts out.

“What, are you Cinderella now?” Geno teases, trying not to feel hurt. Is he _that_ bad at kissing?

“No, not-- not like that,” Sid says, leaning forward with a sigh. His head tucks so perfectly against Geno’s chest, and Geno could stay here forever.

“Like what, then?” he says.

“I-- um, my mom got a new job. We’re moving away from LA,” he says, and Geno’s heart plummets to his feet.

“When are you leaving?” Geno asks, urgent, pulling back to look Sid in the eyes.

Sid looks miserable. Guilty. “At the end of the school year.” 

The clock striking midnight for Cinderella must have felt like this, Geno thinks in a daze. He shoves it away, as far as possible, and smiles shakily at Sid. “Then we just have to enjoy tonight and the next few weeks the most,” he says, and Sid smiles back. 

“Yeah. And I’ll keep in touch, you know?” Sid says.

Geno nods. A tiny, cynical part of him doesn’t believe it, but today, he’ll live on the hope that comes with that too. They’ll stay in touch. They will. Riding on the adrenaline of the dance, it’s easy to believe.

“Yeah,” Geno says, and then no more words are needed as they kiss under the yellow glow of streetlights.

\------

_Beep, beep beep, beep!_

Geno groans, rolling over and fumbling for his phone. He swipes to snooze and flops onto his back with a sigh, eyes still closed. Mornings are the worst. Sunday mornings especially, during performance weeks, because he’s danced three times already between Friday and Saturday and has two more performances to go on Sunday. He’s got a tight schedule this morning to make it to the matinee and zero motivation or energy to stick to it. 

Geno dozes until his phone screams again. This time, he turns the alarm off and lazily flips through his usual morning sites. He’s already running five minutes behind, but stubbornness and the God-given right to be a divo when dancing the Swan King whisper seductively in his ear to stay under the covers. In pure defiance of his schedule, he flips open Facebook, usually the bane of his existence, and scrolls through.

It’s more mindless entertainment than anything else, and he’s barely absorbing what he’s reading. He thumbs quickly past the inevitable LAB advertisements, still feeling a twist of self-consciousness even after five years as a principal and the face of the company. The quick scroll slowly rolls to a stop, landing on a news article, and he skims the title. _MOCA Presents Sidney Crosby._

Geno drops his phone on his face. 

Spluttering, he picks it back up, and his feed had moved enough from contact with his chin that the article disappeared. Cursing, he scrolls up and down until he finds it again: _MOCA Presents Sidney Crosby_. His heart is thundering in his ears; he can feel his pulse throbbing from his chest down to his fingers and toes. A flush comes over him, and then a sudden cold, and he desperately thinks, _maybe it’s someone else!_

He clicks the link, breath sitting shallow in his lungs, and jiggles the phone in desperation as the progress bar at the top of the page inches along. Finally, it speeds to the right, and the title loads followed by a picture. 

Geno’s heart stops before thumping back into life. It’s unmistakably Sid: his eyes, his lips, his hair. But the awkward, unfinished edges of his face have been polished away to reveal a strong, square jaw and high cheekbones. He smolders at the camera in the picture, serious in a way that Geno doesn’t remember him being. He’s wearing a plain black tee, and just below the edge of one sleeve lurks the hint of tattoos. 

_Beep, beep, beep!_

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Geno mutters. This alarm is titled _FUCK YOU GET UP_ ; he dismisses it and the implications it carries. The picture of Sid draws him back in and he lingers for another moment. And another. And another. 

Until his phone rings, and it’s Sasha, yelling at him because they’re supposed to be meeting right now to head in and Geno is still in bed. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon,” Geno says, running right over Sasha’s tirade that he is so clearly enjoying giving. 

“Why do you sound so distracted?” Sasha demands.

“Don’t worry about it,” Geno says, finally throwing himself into a sitting position. _Ugh_. Everything feels bad. He needs to stretch. 

“I’m going to find out,” Sasha says, mild and sweet. It’s how Geno knows that he’s going to suffer.

Geno hangs up without even a retort, which Sasha will appropriately attribute as a win, and dashes around his apartment. It takes ten minutes before he flies out the door, a beefed up protein shake in hand for breakfast, and gets to the bus stop, resigning himself to dealing with Sasha’s gleeful, nosy expression. 

He manages to hold strong through the commute, mostly by distracting Sasha with the corps de ballet drama du jour. Still, his attention is split between Sasha and the picture of Sid indelibly burned into his mind, and his fingers itch to pull out his phone and read the article. It’s better not to give Sasha any ammunition, especially when he feels so cut off at the knees. His mind races with questions, and beyond all of the simple hows and whys echoes the biggest question: _does Sid even remember me?_

Geno doesn’t get a second of peace until he’s sequestered in his dressing room having survived Sasha’s interrogation, the morning corps meeting, warm-ups, and a light lunch. His fingers tingle with impatience, having danced across his thigh in a patter every second he wasn’t dancing or stretching, and they fumble as he tugs his phone from his bag. He has five minutes to spare, maybe, if his tights go on more smoothly than they did yesterday, and he’ll take every second.

_MOCA Presents Sidney Crosby_

LA, Calif. -- Watch out, LA. Instagram’s hottest bachelor and the art world’s hottest star is in town. Sidney Crosby was all smiles when we sat down with him earlier today, contrary to the smouldering and brooding high-concept self-portraits that he initially rose to internet stardom with. 

**Welcome to LA! Is it true that this isn’t your first time here?**

(laughs) It’s true! I lived here for a while growing up. LA has a lot of meaning to me, and it’s very important to me that I am able to have this show at MOCA. 

**Getting right down to business, I see. Talk to us about MOCA. It’s your first physical exhibit, correct?**

Well, yeah, it’s my first exhibit at a major museum. But I think my mom’s living room was technically my first exhibit. (laughs) I actually have had some past offers to do a show at other major museums, but I turned them down. It had to be here. The pieces are only part of the art; the setting matters just as much. I’ve been planning this exhibit for a long time, and even as it’s evolved as I’ve matured as an artist, it’s always been a fact to me that it had to happen in LA. So it was a huge moment when MOCA reached out to me, even more than they knew. 

**That’s so exciting! The city is abuzz with excitement that you’re here. Can you give us a sneak peek into the exhibit?**

Well, I don’t want to spoil anything. It’s a mix of new and familiar pieces, put together in the perfect spaces. It tells a story that is very personal to me, and I hope this exhibit will launch that story forward to the next chapter. I will say the crown jewel is a piece called _Cinderella_. And I’ll say that not everyone will get to see it in its full glory-- even I haven’t seen it completed yet, but I hope it will happen during this exhibition. The rest is for you to discover.

**You can’t just say that and leave us hanging!**

(laughs) Actually, I think I can. 

**Ouch. Okay, let’s talk Instagram...**

“Zhenya!” Sasha calls, pounding on his door. “Are you even dressed yet? Or are you thinking about whatever’s had you distracted all day!” 

“Go away!” Geno calls back, glancing at the clock on the wall. _Shit_ , he’s going to be late. There’s still plenty of article left to read, but he really can’t put the performance off another second. 

Pulling on his costume focuses Geno in just as clearly as it always has. There’s no room for distraction when he’s got the dual performance of Odet and Odil to focus on. The sweet innocence of Odet, the sweeping, birdlike movements of his arms will consume Geno until he changes into black and becomes Odil the tempter, the seducer, the distractor. The two-faced performance is more than enough to fill his mind through both performances.

It’s nine-thirty before he’s dressed in street clothes and blessedly free of on-stage obligations until Friday. The weekday matinees are taken by Julie as the newest principle; Geno is more than overjoyed to hand off some of his responsibility, especially to an old friend. He can relax and recover now for five days, resting his bones and convincing his body to be ready for another mad sprint through the weekend. 

Geno is utterly ravenous, of body and of soul. He should just head home and eat a good dinner, one of the many boxes of food he prepped during the week knowing he’d be worse than useless at cooking between so many performances. But there’s something he needs far more than good food, and he could use a treat too.

“Gotta go run an errand,” Geno says in Sasha’s ear as he passes, and he hurries his steps to disappear from Sasha’s squawk and shouted interrogation. Geno struck carefully, though, and Sasha is stuck helping Caroline stretch out the hamstring that’s been giving her trouble, so Geno makes a successful escape. 

He has to look up the best route on his phone; he hasn’t gone to that end of the city in years, and luckily, there’s a rail line that will do. He finishes reading the article about Sid on the train, and once he’s done, he turns off his phone screen, leans his head back, and closes his eyes. There’s a feeling in his chest like missed opportunities, like his life went down the wrong path on accident. He’s too far down the path; he can’t turn back to find a different branch, to take him somewhere else. To take him to Sid. 

It’s been nearly eight years, Geno realizes with a shock. He’s dated since then; he’s lived his life without pining for Sid, though his head still turns every time a skateboarder rolls by or he passes a skate park. But nobody ever quite brought Geno down to earth like Sid, nobody made his soul sigh and relax in the same way. Maybe that spark was missing in all his other relationships and that’s why they didn’t work out. Or maybe it was just the special feeling of a first love that was cut short before they could know each other long enough to find out the bad stuff. 

Geno could turn around, go home, get something better for dinner. But here’s his stop and he wants burgers and fries, dammit, so he gets off and leaves the station. The In’n’Out sign is visible from the station exit, just a few blocks away, and it’s a nice walk as he’s pushed along by the fall breeze. He gets two double-doubles animal style and fries and the biggest cup filled to the brim with water. This may be a special, off-the-books treat, but there’s a limit on how far Geno can push it.

The sun has long since set-- about when the evening performance started-- and the streets here are quiet. It’s a short walk to the skate park, one that Geno doesn’t remember with his mind but with his feet, and it’s a good thing he knows where it is otherwise because it doesn’t look how he remembers it. Now, it’s beat-down, the chain link falling off the fence poles, the street lamps half extinguished, the railings taken out, the concrete scuffed and split by gaping cracks that grass pokes up through. There’s no one here, unsurprisingly, and Geno is able to sit at the edge of the halfpipe and dangle his feet in as he eats. 

He’s still not sure what he thought he would get out of coming here. Now he feels sad and a little maudlin, surrounded by a neglected, half-forgotten place. Once full of happiness and the thrill of a crush, followed by the despair of passing by and knowing Sid wasn’t there, the skate park now is just sadly nostalgic. It’s trapped in moments nearly a decade past, and Geno’s shoulders slump once he’s finished his food.

“Hello, can you help me?” a voice calls out, and Geno startles. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching with the street traffic too loud in comparison. The man is shrouded in shadow, standing under a street lamp that’s busted, and Geno squints to try to see past the darkness.

“What are you looking for?” Geno calls, a little wary. He stands up and turns to fully face the stranger. He’s not much of a fighter, but a ballerino’s kick is supposedly as strong as a horse’s, and he wants his legs to be free just in case. It’s not a bad part of town, but bad things can happen anywhere, and Geno is suddenly regretting some recent decisions. 

The man steps forward, holding something golden and glittery out in front of him. “I’m looking for someone. My prince that I met at a ball. But-- well, I had to leave early, and I lost track of him.” Geno gasps as he realizes-- that’s his mask from Cinderella, and holding it-- “I was wondering if you could try his mask on to see if it fits.”

Sid is just an arm’s length away now, and Geno drinks in his vibrance. A smile plays around his lips, but his eyes tell the true story, hopeful and raw and braced for disappointment. Geno licks his lips, lost for words, and slowly reaches out to take the mask. He’s grown more than a bit since he last wore it, but the elastic is new and a little longer and tougher than the original, carefully replaced so as not to damage the edges of the mask. 

It fits. Sid breaks into a wavering smile. “Geno?”

“Sid,” Geno says, a little hoarse. Then Sid’s there, crashing into Geno’s chest, and they’re clinging to each other. 

“I saw an article about you this morning and I had no idea you were famous or that you were here and I didn’t know if you’d remember me but I had to come here,” Geno babbles. “And you’re here? Why are you here?”

“I’ve come by every night since I arrived,” Sid says, half muffled by Geno’s hoodie. “I hoped… I hoped you still lived here, that you might think about coming by. I lost your phone number years ago, I didn’t know how to find you.”

“I dance for LAB now,” Geno says. It seems important. “Principal, since I was 22. The youngest ever.”

Sid pulls back, eyes shining. “Really?” he breathes, and Geno nods. Sid dives back in, squeezing Geno even tighter around the middle. “There’s something I have to show you.”

“What?” Geno asks.

Sid shakes his head. “Not here. When are you free?”

“I have rehearsal Wednesday and I do all the weekend performances, but the rest of the week is free,” Geno says. 

“Come with me tonight,” Sid asks, and then pulls back to duck his head. “I mean-- maybe that’s too forward--”

“No,” Geno says. He grabs Sid’s hand, raises it and waits for Sid to look, and then delicately kisses the back and then each knuckle from thumb to pinky. “I’ll come with you. Whatever you want to show me.”

Sid nods. He pulls out his phone, presumably to call a cab, and pauses. He looks at Geno again, and in every line of his face is his heart writ large. “I’m so glad you came here tonight,” he says.

“Me too,” Geno replies, and he’s never meant anything in his life so sincerely as that.

Half an hour later, they’re standing outside MOCA. “I don’t think it’s open this late,” Geno says doubtfully.

Sid is on his phone again, and he gives Geno a knowing expression. “Hi Dave,” he says cheerily when someone picks up. “Can you let me in? I need to check on the installation.” He hangs up as Geno stares, his jaw dropped. “It’s the night guard,” Sid explains. 

The door opens and Sid steps in confidently, making small talk with the guard as Geno trails behind, his Cinderella mask still in his hand from when he took it off before getting into the cab. In the front of the main atrium is a ten-foot-tall wall hanging of Sid standing naked, holding his skateboard bottom-out in front of his hips, body painted with a continuation of the pattern on the board. SIDNEY CROSBY: A CINDERELLA STORY the base of the poster reads. 

“Shit,” Geno whispers in awe.

Sid looks a little green staring up at it. “Even after a couple of years being famous, it still feels weird to see myself like this,” he confesses.

“I hate it too,” Geno shares. “Always my face on the LAB advertisements, and I get _so_ many fucking banner ads of myself. I scroll past really fast.”

Sid laughs at that, throwing his head back as his body heaves with joy. Geno didn’t think it was _that_ funny, but okay. He’s smiling from ear to ear, sharing in Sid’s joy, until Sid calms down.

“This way,” he says, grabbing Geno’s hand, and they wander through rooms of exhibition. Geno tries to stop and linger many times-- a progression of self portraits, a living room set up and decorated in its entirety, a set of luscious oil paintings with subjects that are just beyond focus-- but Sid determinedly drags him along. 

“I want to look at it!” Geno protests, digging in his heels a bit.

“You can look later,” Sid insists, stubborn. “This isn’t what you’re here to see.”

With a dramatic sigh, Geno allows himself to be dragged along past the rest of the art and through a thin corridor. The room opens up into what must be the finale of the exhibit, and Geno is again struck dumb. On the wall directly in front of him is an oil painting, maybe five or six feet tall and hung ten feet off the ground, of the mask he holds in his hand sitting on a drape of green velvet. Spreading out from the sides of it are hundreds of variations on the mask, all in gold but each made unique with different designs and accents and textures to them. They are packed tightly around the oil painting, flowing outward from there around the walls. 

The strangest part is just below the oil painting. A trifold screen of intricately textured glass in a golden frame sits on the ground and rises maybe eight feet up, spreading nearly as many feet wide. There’s nothing behind it or on it, and Geno can’t quite understand how it fits in with the masks.

“This is called _Cinderella_ ,” Sid says softly. He steps up to Geno and softly takes the mask back. “It’s never been completed. Will… will you help me finish it?”

“I can’t,” Geno protests. “I’m not an artist!”

Sid holds up the mask. “Yes, you are,” he says firmly. Geno bends his head at Sid’s gesture, and Sid gently slips the mask on. Geno drops his bag as Sid takes him by the hand and leads him behind the glass. There’s a dark green dot on the floor, and Sid positions him over it. “Here,” he says softly, and then walks back around the glass. 

Now, Geno can see how the glass is textured, wavering and bubbly, and looking at Sid feels almost like looking into his memories, faded and distant and wavering. _I’m not an artist! Yes, you are_ , echos in Geno’s head, and-- well, if Sid wants Geno’s art, who is he to refuse? He shifts into first position before rising into an arabesque and freezing. 

“God,” Sid breathes, then gives a tiny hiccup as he hunches in on himself. He’s crying, Geno realizes in a panic, and he drops to both feet and scrambles around the glass to cradle Sid. 

“Are you okay?” Geno asks, patting Sid all over, nonsensically looking for injuries like he does when any of the ballerini cry. 

“You’re beautiful,” Sid says shakily. “It’s perfect. Better than I ever imagined. Thank you.” Sid rises on his toes and cradles Geno’s cheeks just below the edges of the mask. He’s a little blotchy from the crying, but the hazel in his eyes is brighter from the tears. Geno is helpless, and he leans forward to kiss Sid softly. Sid kisses hungrily back before pulling away.

“The night guard--” he says, and Geno nods. He’s used to being a bit in the public eye but having a security guard walk in as he’s making out with his childhood crush is a bit much for him. “Will you come back to my hotel with me?” he asks, and Geno nods again, more emphatically. 

“Never want anything in my life as much as that,” Geno says, just because Sid still looks a little unsure. At that, he relaxes with a smile, stepping close to Geno again and resting his hand over Geno’s heart.

“Can you do one more thing for me before we leave?” Sid asks. “I want to take a picture of you in here. I want to tell the world that Cinderella is complete. And I want to post it with a date that you’ll be in the piece so anyone can see. In… in a ballet costume, if you can.”

“Yes,” Geno says. “Any day. Every day. Whenever you want, wearing whatever you want. I’ll even call out of _Swan Lake_ , if you want me to.”

“You’re doing _Swan Lake_?” Sid says, excited. “Are you doing the Swan King?” Geno nods. “You’re not allowed to skip that,” Sid declares. “I want to see it.”

“I can get you tickets,” Geno says. “Go ahead and take your picture.”

It takes a good twenty minutes as Sid leads Geno around the room and grumbles, looking for the perfect perspective. “This one’s just for me,” he says as he takes a picture of Geno back in the arabesque behind the glass. He finally settles with Geno behind the mirror, half his face behind the glass and half not, and Geno thinks briefly of the duality of the Swan King. Finally, Sid turns his phone around to show Geno, and it’s a square framing centered around the mask and showing not much more of Geno’s face. There’s a drama and a mystery to it, and Geno’s heart aches at Sid’s skill. 

“How does Tuesday night sound?” Sid says, busily typing a caption.

Geno steps close, wrapping his arms around Sid’s waist. “I don’t know,” he says lowly. “Do you think you could stand to leave the bed by then?”

Sid looks up at Geno, eyes wide, before licking his lips. “Only if we get started right away,” he says, and Geno leans forward to kiss him, this time deeper and hungrier than before.

“Hurry up, then,” Geno says once he’s pulled away. He takes another look at Sid, so thick and solid and _real_ as he scrabbles on his phone, and he feels nearly bursting with joy and wonder and the improbability of standing here with Sid after all these years. 

His soul is at rest, and he’s sure of it now-- there was no one that could do this but Sid.

“Let’s go,” Sid says, and they hold hands tightly as they exit and climb into a magically waiting Uber. The millions of questions that were running through Geno’s head earlier have all dissipated like a morning fog burnt off by the rising sun of Sid’s smile. It’s bad form to make out in an Uber, especially without having the excuse of being drunk, but it takes all Geno’s got to remember that and hold to it. Instead he feasts on Sid, eating up every hint of a wrinkle on his face, every tiny movement of his muscles, every way the streetlights create a halo around him before plunging them back into darkness. 

They walk into a hotel; Geno couldn’t tell you the name, what the decor looked like, what floor they went to. He’s practically vibrating with anticipation and anxiety. Elevator doors open with a ding and he’s following Sid down a dim hotel hallway. Sid taps a card to open the door and they’re finally alone. Geno reaches eagerly for Sid, but his hand is stayed when he sees the creases in Sid’s expression. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Sid takes in a deep breath and blows it out as his gaze drops to the floor. “I’m-- really nervous,” he says, his voice a little high. “It’s been a long time, you know?” The tight, worried lump in Geno’s chest relaxes instantly. “Is this really happening?”

“I’m here,” Geno says softly as he steps close to Sid, close enough that their breaths mingle in the slim space between them. He gently reaches for Sid’s hand and, when Sid doesn’t resist, cradles it between both of his own. “The clock struck midnight a long time ago. I’m with you and I’m here to stay.”

Sid chews at his lower lip. “I just-- do I even _know_ you? Have I just built you up into this perfect thing in my head that you aren’t?”

Geno draws Sid’s hand up to his mouth and again kisses each knuckle, one after another, ending by turning Sid’s hand to kiss the wide thumb knuckle. “Don’t worry,” Geno breathes as he stares into Sid’s eyes. “I’m pretty perfect, so it’s okay.”

Sid throws his head back and howls at that. He laughs so hard he starts to stagger, and Geno takes the opening to slide their bodies together and support them both. He laughs himself out before tipping his head up to face Geno and wrapping his arms around Geno’s neck. “Is it really that easy?” he asks, his eyes still sparkling. 

“Yes,” Geno says, and finally leans forward to kiss Sid. It’s tentative for a moment, just the soft touch of lip on lip, before Sid leans into it. Quick, exploratory kisses pressed together turn deeper as a thrill dances in Geno’s bones, and soon enough they’re helping each other out of their clothes. Geno is giddy with first love again as he smooths his hands across Sid’s skin. It feels like the world stopped turning for all the years they were apart, only to be kickstarted again with their kisses. Sid is just as steady as he always was, trapped halfway between serious and silly, but now there’s a polish on him from adulthood that draws Geno even closer. He wants to know everything about Sid, about his life, about his art, about his body and pleasure, and Geno’s surprised by the depth of the hunger. 

Sid’s hungry from Geno too; Geno can tell by how they crash together in passion. The first time having sex with someone is never graceful or effortless. It’s like practicing new choreography for the first time, full of little missteps and giggling at getting tangled up in your own feet. At one point, Sid and Geno nearly headbutt each other as they look down at the same time, and then Sid’s wrist tweaks and they have to shift. But Sid is bossy, good at asking for what he wants, and Geno has never seen a sight more beautiful than Sid, all blushed and sweaty, panting, “Yeah, just like-- like that, a little more, please--”

They move together in a dance, a new one never done before, and as Geno comes under Sid’s greedily watching eyes, all he can think is _yes._

\------

The usual Tuesday in Geno’s world: get up late, eat the shittiest food he can find in his fridge for brunch, go to afternoon yoga with Sasha and have dinner together after, work on whatever show he’s binge-watching with or without Sasha depending on how much he wants to deal with Sasha talking over everything, and go to sleep in a cold and lonely bed. 

This Tuesday in Geno’s world: Wake up early because Sid has stolen all the blankets _again_ , wake Sid up intending to grumble at him about his thievery but instead accidentally have sex with him instead, sleep in, have sex again after ordering room service, laugh at Sid as he panics about the time, stops laughing when Sid insists in dressing him, and get handsy enough with Sid while being dressed that they nearly have sex and ruin Sid’s hard work and end up late.

But they weren’t late, on this strange Tuesday; they arrive just on time, and Sid is looking dashingly rumpled ( _“My hair is a mess,” he had fretted earlier, with the Uber two minutes away, and Geno had said, “You’re an artist, supposed to look above mere human hair. It’s fine. Let’s go before--” and then they were half-wrestling and giggling in the bathroom and making Sid’s hair worse and nearly missing the notification that the car was here._ ) while Geno is wrapped in a literal bedsheet to conceal his dancer’s costume. He feels a little ridiculous, like the opposite of Cinderella. Not arriving triumphantly at the ball, unrecognizable in confidence and beauty, but rather sneaking in, hiding his finery away lest the court find out his secret. 

Sid has the Uber take them to a side alley, dimly lit, and shuffles Geno out of the car next to a heavy steel door illuminated by one yellow bulb. Sid pounds on the door as the car drives off, tail-light red glowing in his hair, and the door swings open.

It’s like stepping into a dream of opulence and loneliness. They enter Sid’s set of exhibit rooms about halfway through, and everything around them is glittering and utterly empty. Each room feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting to be flooded with the royalty of LA and the art world, who undoubtedly will glimmer even brighter than the decorations, the food, the art. It’s so different from Geno’s ordinary Tuesday that he almost laughs in incredulity at his bedsheet among the richness.

Geno’s breath catches again as they arrive in the Cinderella room. The mask from the painting is clenched in his fist, and his thumb strokes, unbidden, against the rough coating of glitter upon it. He’s so enraptured by the painting, the masks, the glass, that it takes him a moment to realize they’re not alone. Sid stands in the corner of the room, speaking in a low voice to a dark-eyed, thin-lipped man with a clipboard. Geno leaves them to it as he sits on the ground and swaps out his slides for his current favorite pair of pointe shoes. He stretches a little, but he’s not too worried about it-- a little bit of posing is nothing for him, really. 

As Geno finishes his warmup and walks closer, their conversation grinds to a halt. The new man looked curiously at Geno as Sid says, “Marc, this is Evgeni Malkin.”

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Marc says, sticking out a hand for Geno to shake. “Marc-Andre Fleury. I help Sid keep his shit together. You must be Cinderella.” 

Geno passes the mask from one hand to another to free himself for the proffered handshake. “I was Cinderella once, a long time ago,” he says. “But some parts stay with you for life, I suppose. Does Sid not often have his shit together?”

“Less than you’d think,” Marc says, as Sid turns a little pink around the ears and glances away. Marc twists his wrist and looks down at his watch. “T-minus fifteen for press, thirty for VIPs,” Marc says brusquely. “Let’s get ready for the ball, Sid.” 

“You deal with the rest,” Sid says. “I’ve got Geno.”

“I bet you do,” Marc mutters with a saucy wink at Sid before sweeping up Geno’s slides and walking off.

“I like him,” Geno tells Sid.

“Oh god,” Sid moans. “I have regrets.”

“It’s good for you, I can tell,” Geno says before leaning forward to steal a kiss. It starts to transform into something a little hotter, but they break away with a start as Marc clears his throat.

“Don’t start that here,” Sid says lowly. “I want the press to be dazzled by my art, not live porn.”

“I have been looking for a career change,” Geno says thoughtfully. Sid gives him a gentle whack on the shoulder but doesn’t otherwise dignify that with an answer.

“Here,” Sid says instead, holding out his hands and grasping the edges of the bedsheet. He swirls it off Geno in a wide sweep, balls it up, and chucks it over to the ready and waiting Marc. Revealed beneath it is almost the spitting image of the white-and-gold outfit Geno wore all those years ago, from the coat and its dramatic tails down to the tutu. Gently, Sid disentangles the mask from Geno’s fingers and cradles it in his own hands for a long moment. When he looks up at Geno, his eyes are wide and dark and soft. “I never thought I’d see this day,” he says softly. “I never thought--” His chin trembles as his eyes glisten. 

“Hey, hey,” Geno says softly. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Sid, the mask crushed awkwardly between them. “Sid, I’m here. It’s okay. You don’t have to think about other ways it could have gone. We’re here together, and I can complete your vision. No matter what happens after, if you decide my snoring is too much or we can’t figure out who moves where or-- any of it, no matter what, we have this moment together, okay?”

“I’ll move back to LA, of course,” Sid snivels.”And your snoring is cute.”

“You say that now,” Geno says ominously to cover up how his heart skips a beat at _I’ll move back to LA_. “Wait ‘til allergy season.”

Sid laughs, then goes, “Oh god, I’m all-- I can’t get snot on your outfit!” He pulls away, and there is Marc holding out a tissue. Sid wipes his face and gathers himself. 

“Ten minutes,” Marc says. Sid nods, determined, and a different look overtakes his face. 

“Let’s do this,” he says. It’s like watching the corps de ballet shift from goofing around backstage to lined up for their entrances. Geno wants to watch this transformation a thousand times, see how the lines of his face flow from the vulnerable Sid to the diamond-hard artist. 

Sid steps forward as Geno bows his head. It’s like they’re transported to two nights ago, like no time has passed at all, even though it feels like a lifetime. Sid settles the mask over Geno’s face, careful of the makeup, and adjusts it a tiny bit here and there for what feels like minutes. A crease carves a shadow between his eyes and his lips are a little bloodless from pursuing. 

Geno captures Sid’s hands in his own. “Sid,” he says. “It’s fine. It’s okay. I look amazing, like always.”

That causes Sid’s face to relax, at least. He’s too serious now to laugh, but that’s a challenge Geno will save for another day. “You do,” Sid says, and it’s a little bit admiring, wondering. 

“What do you want me to do?” Geno says. 

“Whatever feels right,” Sid says. “My art is what’s on the walls. Your art is the moment. I’m just here to watch, like everyone else.” 

Geno nods. It’s been years, so many years, but he remembers all of the Ratmansky Cinderella solo like he’s practiced weekly since that day. He hasn’t been thinking about this moment and what he’d do for it, not at the front of his brain, but somewhere in the shadows of his hindbrain he had already decided. 

“FIve minutes,” Marc calls softly. He’s setting up a green velvet rope to split the room, isolating Geno and the trifold glass screen on one side. Five minutes is just enough time for a run through, and Geno whips through the movements. It’s tight to fit it all behind the screen, but he can do it. 

“Geno?” Sid calls. 

Geno covers his eyes with his hands with one last deep, confident breath. “Ready,” Geno calls, and the makeshift door opens.

There’s a brief surge of chatter as the press floods into the room, but an awed silence spreads quickly from front to back. Geno can almost feel how they press up against the velvet rope, how they stare eagerly at the wavering, gold-and-white form hidden behind the glass. Geno waits a long moment, savoring the tension, the edge of confusion, and then he begins.

Geno dances the wonder of seeing Sid again, surrounded by love he thought was long lost. He dances hesitance, that startling moment of insecurity when they think, _has too much time passed?,_ before he dances confidence and hope, too enchanted to let the time given back to them slip away. Only then does he go en pointe, finding his confidence and grace and realizing that perhaps they can belong in this happiness too. 

Geno can’t do a pas de deux without a partner; as he reaches the end of the solo work, he simply steps to one side and reaches out for his prince, just far enough that his hand passes beyond the end of the glass and emerges into sight by the crowd. There he pauses: head thrown back in exhilaration, hand reaching from the murky past to the clear present, heart offered up and waiting for Sid to take or leave as he pleases. 

The overhead lights in the room fade, leaving just a spotlight behind, shimmering on the oil painting and bouncing in spangles off the masks, and the room descends into frenzied applause. 

Sid stands in the corner of the room that Geno gestures towards. His eyes are the only part of his face that Geno can discern, and they glitter at Geno like they’re the only ones in the world.

\------

The same look is on Sid’s face three days later as he’s the first to stand for the ovation from his spot front and center in the audience for _Swan Lake_. It’s been a week of bliss, but Sasha hissing _We have lots to talk about_ in Geno’s ear as they lined up backstage before the performance brought Geno crashing back to earth. 

As soon as the final curtain fell and the sight of Sid dropped away, Sasha was heading towards Geno with a shark-tooth smile. _Dammit_. Reality hits hard when it reappears, apparently. 

“Hi, how are you, I’m very busy, see you tomorrow--” Geno tries. 

Sasha doesn’t slow down; he charges right into Geno’s personal space and pushes them both up against the nearest wall. “Hi, Zhenya,” he says sweetly. “I saw the news this week. It was very interesting.”

“Was it,” Geno says with the straightest face he can manage. Sid has shown him every article that was published over the past week; not once was he mentioned by name. He doesn’t have to cop to anything. 

“I saw a mask that looked very familiar,” Sasha says. 

“Sometimes I think to myself, well, all masks look the same,” Geno gamely attempts. Sasha stares flatly at him, and Geno feels a little bit of a fresh sweat break out across his forehead already salt-crusted from the effort of performing. 

Sasha leans forward until their noses are nearly touching. “I want all the details,” he says. “This is too juicy. You can’t leave me hanging.” 

“You are such a messy bitch,” Geno says. 

Sasha crows. “I’m right!” he says. “You don’t deny it! Tell me everything!” 

Geno slips around Sasha while he’s distracted doing a victory fist-pump. “I’ll be sure to invite you to the wedding,” he calls as he books it for his dressing room. 

“Zhenya!” Sasha sounds actually wounded, enough so that Geno stops and sighs to himself.

“Get ready in my dressing room tomorrow, we can talk then,” he concedes. Sasha makes his hands into a little heart, and Geno flaps a hand at that as he turns to power-walk to his dressing room.

Sid is waiting for Geno under the harsh lights of the vanity. He rushes forward, wrapping Geno in a hug, and a long moment passes as they breathe each other in. It’s too perfect to be true, and in the pit of Geno’s stomach rumbles with something a little like fear. Geno steps back and looks at Sid, really _looks_ at him, every solid inch of his body that suddenly feels so ephemeral to Geno.

“This isn’t a fairytale, you know,” Geno says. His palms are sweating, and he wants to convince Sid to leave before anyone’s heart gets too broken. This was a charmed week, but it’s easy to wrap it up now and store it next to the charmed couple of months they had as clumsy teens. To try for something more is as terrifying as it is tempting.

“I know,” Sid says. That crease between his eyebrows is back as his lips turn down into a little moue of confusion. “It’s better. It’s real life.”

This probably feels like it’s coming out of nowhere for Sid. Honestly, it feels the same for Geno, but the fear surges in his bones and it’s too strong for him to stop. “But-- there’s no happily ever after in real life. I told you, I snore too much, and you steal the blankets, and maybe we don’t agree about how to handle money or how many kids to have or hell, maybe we slowly fall out of love.” Who was Geno trying to convince, anyway? He’s not quite sure. Himself? Sid? The universe?

“Does ballet come naturally to you?” Sid asks.

Geno blinks. “Uh-- what?” 

“Does it just come to you?” Sid asks. “Did you do it perfectly on the first try?”

“God, no,” Geno says, horrified. 

“You have to work at it,” Sid says. “I had to work at my art. Did you love it any less for working on it? I don’t.”

“I love the work,” Geno says softly. “The performance is the easy part; everybody loves applause. The practice is what matters and what makes it worth it to me.”

Sid reaches out and waits for Geno to twist their hands together. “Maybe it’s been a fairytale between us up until now,” Sid says. “But now we have a second chance, this time not to be perfect but to practice being together, for as long as we want. We can do the work and create a relationship, a love, a pure piece of art that is perfect because of its flaws. Do you want to try?”

“I’m scared,” Geno says. “I want to, but-- all of a sudden it’s scary. I’m always brave, but this…” He can’t say, _last time after you saw me perform, you told me you were leaving. This time I’ll push you away first and then you can’t hurt me._

Sid sighs. There’s a sadness in his eyes that says maybe he sees the parallel too. “Will you be here with me, in this moment?” Sid asks.

“Yes,” Geno says. 

“Then be here with me today. Let tomorrow take care of itself. Don’t worry about the clock striking midnight on you, Cinderella. Just-- be with me at the ball, okay?”

“Okay,” Geno breathes. He tilts his head down and lifts Sid’s chin with his fingers until their cheeks are pressed up against each other.

“What are you doing?” Sid asks, a little breathless.

“Shh,” Geno scolds. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

There’s a pause. “Yeah. It is.” 

“Stay with me, in LA,” Geno says. It’s easier to say without looking into Sid’s eyes. “I’m no prince, I don’t have a castle, but-- stay.”

“Is this a bad time to tell you I already bought a house?” Sid asks. Geno snorts, and Sid giggles, and then they dissolve into laughter. 

“Does it have a skate park?” Geno asks when he can catch his breath enough to form words.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sid chokes out, and that sets them both off again. 

When they calm down, Geno’s stomach growls loud enough that they both can hear it. They stare at each other for a long moment, before Geno says, “In-n-Out?”

“Yeah,” Sid says. “That sounds great.” He says it tenderly, too softly to be about hamburgers, even really good ones. It’s all the answer Geno needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://itsacoup.tumblr.com)!


End file.
